A Bitter Feast

by Deborah Crombie

  “But—” Melody could only stare at him. “Joe, are you telling me that you took money from the account?”

  “I was going to pay it back.” His gaze was pleading.

  Melody had never known anyone who lived a more frugal life—not even Andy in his pre-fame days. “I can’t believe that. Why would you do such a thing? Why not just tell my mother if you needed money for something?”

  “Because I was ashamed. It’s my stupid youngest brother. He’s got himself in trouble for serious drugs, and my parents needed the money for the lawyer’s fees. I didn’t want your mum and dad to think badly of my family.”

  “Oh, Joe.” Melody shook her head in exasperation. “You’ve been a bloody idiot. Listen to me. You are not responsible for your brother’s actions. Neither are your parents. But this— You are going to have to deal with this.”

  “I know. And I know I have to tell Addie, but I had to tell you first. After last night, I didn’t want you thinking I’d . . . Oh, God—that there were any false pretenses in what we . . . that I’d used you in any way. Christ, I’ve made a balls-up of things.”

  Melody remembered something. “Was that Roz who called you last night, when I was there?”

  Joe nodded. “She was getting more and more . . . um, aggressive . . . in her threats.”

  “Have you spoken to her since?”

  “No. I’ve blocked her number. She’ll be livid.”

  “Don’t speak to her, Joe. Not under any circumstances. You know I have to inform the police straightaway?”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  Melody made an effort to pull herself together. “Okay. I don’t think anyone’s at home right now. But as soon as my mum comes back, you’ll have to speak to her. You don’t want her to hear about this from someone else.” Melody hesitated, then added, “And, Joe, after what happened to Jack Doyle, just be careful, okay?”

  Kerry Boatman reached Colm Finlay through his restaurant group’s corporate offices first thing on Monday morning. To her surprise, he’d been eager to talk to her. He’d set up an appointment to meet with her at eleven o’clock at his Kensington restaurant, Pomme. The place was on Abingdon Road, just off Kensington High Street, a few minutes’ walk from the police station.

  When she reached the address, she found an unassuming shop front occupying the ground floor of a bland postwar, three-story building. She knocked as Finlay had directed.

  A moment later he opened the door, introduced himself, and ushered her in. “I had to meet with some suppliers here this morning,” he said, “and I thought it would be easier for you than coming into the West End.”

  Finlay’s corporation, Kerry had learned, owned several successful London restaurants, including one in a renowned Mayfair hotel. Finlay himself was short and sturdily built, with wavy dark hair going gray, a close-trimmed gray beard, and alert blue eyes. “If you’ll just follow me back, we can chat in the chef’s office.” Even after years in London, Finlay’s Belfast accent was still pronounced.

  The interior of the restaurant surprised Kerry. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected of a Michelin-starred venue, but the dining room was casual, wood floored, with square wooden tables, simple black-and-white chairs, and glossy white subway-tiled walls. A sleek black-framed gas fireplace anchored the dining room’s far end.

  As he led her past the gleaming bar, she had only a quick glimpse into the kitchen, where chefs were already at work, prepping for that night’s service. Something already smelled fabulous.

  Finlay led her into a small office behind the bar and seated her in front of a paper-strewn desk. “Can I get you anything? A coffee? Some tea?”

  When she demurred, he got right down to business. “I only heard about Fergus yesterday. Jesus, I still can’t believe it. I’d been trying to reach him for days, but I never imagined something like this . . .”

  No one, Kerry thought, ever did.

  “The newspaper said he was killed in a car accident in the Cotswolds,” Finlay went on, “and I thought it must be a mistake. Fergus didn’t drive, you know. Is it true, then?”

  “I’m afraid it is,” said Kerry. “I’m very sorry. I understand you were friends. Can you tell me why you were trying to reach Mr. O’Reilly?”

  “Because I’d made him a job offer. But there were conditions, and there was a time limit on his acceptance.” Finlay leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “I hope I’m not in some way responsible for what happened to Fergus, because I was the one who sent him haring off to the bloody Cotswolds. The restaurant group had recently acquired a new property in the West End, but the chef who was to take on the place had to renege at the last minute. Fergus had been in touch with me, looking for a job. We started in the same hotel in Belfast, you know, and we had a brief partnership after O’Reilly’s went under. Before he came to me a couple of months ago, I’d never have considered working with him again.”

  “Why was that?” she asked.

  Rocking forward again, Finlay picked up a pencil and tapped it on the nearest stack of papers. Kerry got an impression, not of nerves, but of the suppressed energy in the man. “Because Fergus snorted our profits up his nose. I’d heard rumors, of course, about O’Reilly’s, but I thought he was good enough to compensate for the bad habits. Turned out I was wrong.

  “But then Fergus turned up on my doorstep last summer, swearing he was clean, had been for more than a year. I even let him stay in my flat, because I wanted to see for myself. I’d been toying with the idea of giving Irish fine dining another try.” He flashed a suddenly mischievous grin. “Not that I’d attempt to give Dickie Corrigan a run for his money, mind you. There’s only a limited market for three-star dining, while restaurants like this one”—he waved an expansive hand— “have a very good chance of succeeding with the right formula. And Fergus—a sober Fergus—seemed like a godsend.”

  “Then why send him to the Cotswolds?” Kerry asked, not quite following the logic.

  “Because of Viv Holland. She was the condition. I’d heard about this luncheon she was catering from my reviewer friend at the Chronicle, and I wanted her on board. The thing is, Fergus is—Fergus was—brilliant. But Viv was pure bloody genius.” Finlay’s tone was reverent. “She was the secret ingredient in the sauce, if you’ll forgive me the cliché. Together, they were dynamite.”

  “So Fergus went to the Cotswolds to make Viv an offer?”

  “One she surely couldn’t refuse. Viv Holland, cooking in a bloody pub kitchen.” Finlay grimaced. “Sweet Jesus, what a waste.”

  “Did she accept?”

  “The thing is, I don’t know.” Finlay tapped his pencil again. “Fergus kept putting me off, said they were still ironing things out and he needed to go down there again. That was last week. That was why I’d been ringing him. His time was up as of today. I had to make a decision.”

  Kerry made a few quick notes, then looked back at Finlay with a frown. “You mentioned rumors about O’Reilly’s. What were you referring to?”

  “Ah, well, that’s ancient history. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. One of the staff died suddenly. The story was that it was a cocaine overdose.”

  December 2007

  Viv had already thrown up three times that night when they got the news, halfway through service.

  Danny, their maître d’, hadn’t shown up for work and hadn’t answered his mobile. One of the servers had gone to his flat to check on him, but that had been hours ago. When the girl finally stumbled down the stairs into the kitchen, her face chalky, Viv felt the sickness rise again. “What’s happened?” she said.

  The girl stifled a sob. “He’s dead. Danny’s dead. I got his neighbor to let me in. He was slumped on his sofa. He’d been ill— Oh, God, it was awful.”

  They had all stopped in midtask. Ibby came up to her, his face drawn in shock. “No, that’s bullshit. Danny can’t be dead.”

  “I swear it’s true. I called an ambulance. The paramedics said he’d been gone for, like, hours. Ma
ybe a stroke or a heart attack. And he had”—she touched her nose—“you know, all down his front and on the coffee table—”

  Fergus was shaking his head. “No, he was okay when I left him last night. He was fine.”

  Ibby rounded on him, crossing the kitchen in two strides. “You! You bastard, Fergus. You were with him. You must have seen he was doing too much—”

  “Bloody shut up, Ibby,” Fergus spat back at him. “We had a couple of drinks, that’s all, then he went home. He was fine.” They were almost nose to nose, with Ibby standing on his toes to get right in Fergus’s face.

  Ibby shook his finger at him, poking Fergus in the chest. “Don’t give me that bullshit. If he’s dead, it’s your fucking fault, Fergus.”

  “Fuck off, Ibby.” Fergus knocked his hand away. “It’s too bad about Danny, but we’ve got a service to finish.” He turned away, reaching for a squeeze bottle.

  But Ibby lunged, grabbing him by the throat. Fergus had the advantage of height, but Ibby’s hands were strong and Fergus struggled to loosen his grip.

  Viv was nearest. She bolted towards them, grasping Ibby round the waist with one arm while she tried to break his grip on Fergus’s throat with the other. The rest of the cooks piled on and after a few seconds of straining and a flurry of blows and swearing, they managed to drag the two apart.

  Fergus, panting with fury, shook off their restraining hands and faced Ibby. “Get. Out. Of. My. Kitchen,” he bit out. “I’ll see you never work in this city again, you little shite.”

  Viv still had a hand twisted in the back of Ibby’s white jacket. She could feel him breathing, short and sharp, until he jerked out of her hold. But he didn’t go for Fergus again.

  Very slowly and deliberately, he pulled the ties on his apron and let it drop to the floor. Then he unbuttoned his white jacket and shrugged out of it, all the while never taking his eyes from Fergus. When the jacket had joined the apron, he spoke with deadly calm. “You can keep your bloody kitchen, Fergus O’Reilly. But I’m going to make you pay for this, you wait and see if I don’t.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ivan dropped Kincaid at the elegant detached house in St. George’s Road near the hospital, where Dr. Greene had his practice. Booth was already waiting for him in the parking area, leaning on his Volvo while checking his mobile.

  “Going to live?” Booth called as Kincaid got out.

  “Hopefully.” Kincaid lifted a hand to Ivan as he drove away. “Nice place,” he said, indicating the surgery. He’d seen other surgeries in similar properties along the road, as well as a day nursery and a care home. A few of the houses still seemed to be family homes, but Kincaid imagined the soaring cost of real estate had driven these large places above most family budgets.

  “The practice has a good reputation,” said Booth, pocketing his phone. “My wife has a friend who sees one of the doctors here. This interview is really just ticking the boxes, making sure that Nell Greene didn’t have some connection with O’Reilly that hasn’t yet come to light. Dr. Greene’s agreed to see us between appointments.”

  As Kincaid followed Booth into the building, he wondered if Dr. Abbott had practiced from this house as well. A plump, middle-aged receptionist greeted them and took them immediately into Dr. Greene’s office.

  Even if he’d passed him in the street, Kincaid would have recognized Dr. Bruce Greene from the wedding photo Nell kept in her bedside table. The man was still trim and youthful looking, and would, Kincaid thought, have been handsome if his face had not been lined with shock.

  When they’d introduced themselves and taken the visitors’ seats, Dr. Greene sank heavily into the leather chair behind his desk. “I still can’t believe it,” he said. “I was away at the weekend—a cottage in the Lake District with no mobile reception. It wasn’t until we started home yesterday afternoon that I got the messages. Everyone at the hospital knew before me. I feel as though I should have been here, that Nell had no one—” He broke off, blinking. “I don’t understand what Nell was doing with that man in her car.”

  “We were hoping you might tell us,” said Booth. “Do you know of any previous connection your wife might have had with Mr. O’Reilly?”

  “That chef? Why would Nell have known a London chef?” Greene seemed affronted by the very idea. Kincaid wondered if he’d have been just as incensed at the idea of any man with his ex-wife.

  “Was your wife not interested in cooking, then?” asked Booth.

  “Nell was always very career oriented. That was one of the reasons I—” Greene seemed to think better of what he’d been about to say. “Nell’s idea of dinner was a ready meal, I’m afraid. And the occasional Sunday roast. I couldn’t imagine what she meant to do with herself when she took early retirement.” There was definite disapproval in his tone now, and Kincaid felt a bit less favorably disposed towards him. The man had thought his wife should be more of a homemaker, but hadn’t liked her leaving her job when she was no longer married to him.

  “I take it you two were still . . . cordial?” Kincaid asked.

  The bristle seemed to go out of Dr. Greene. “Well, we weren’t in each other’s pockets, but I’d say we were on friendly enough terms.” He hesitated, then added, “I’ve just had a call from Nell’s solicitor. This is very awkward. It seems I was still the designated beneficiary of Nell’s estate. And her executor. I never thought—” Closing his eyes, he steepled his fingers beneath his nose for a moment.

  “Does that estate include Nell’s cottage?”

  “Yes. And her savings and investments, which were not inconsiderable. I don’t want— Well, I shall have to see what’s to be done.”

  “And the dog?”

  “It will have to go back to the breeder. I’m allergic, I’m afraid.” Greene brushed his hands together, as if disposing of a problem. “I’ve spoken to the vicar,” he went on. “I’m to meet with her in the morning about arrangements, and then I suppose I’ll have a look at the cottage.”

  “Dr. Greene,” put in Booth, glancing at his notebook, “is there anyone who can confirm that you were away the entire weekend?”

  Greene frowned. “Well, my wife, of course. And I suppose the owner of the cottage where we stayed in the Lakes. What sort of a question is that?”

  “Just part of our inquiries. There were some irregularities in the death of your ex-wife’s passenger.”

  “Irregularities? What are you talking about? And what can that possibly have to do with our weekend away?”

  “Nothing, I’m sure. It’s just that it appears Mr. O’Reilly died prior to the accident.”

  “What?” Greene stared at him. Kincaid thought his skin looked suddenly papery against his dark hair—and that the hair was perhaps a bit too evenly brown to be natural for a man in his fifties.

  “His heart, apparently,” Booth said. “The Mercedes coupe parked out front, the E-Class? Is that yours?”

  “Well, yes.” Pride replaced some of Greene’s irritation, although he still looked at them suspiciously. “It’s quite new. That’s one of the reasons we took the weekend in the Lakes. I wanted to try it on a long drive.”

  Booth closed his notebook with a snap and slipped it back in his pocket. “Thank you, Dr. Greene. We won’t take up any more of your time. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  As Booth started to stand, Kincaid said, “One more thing, Doctor. I understand that at one time you shared your practice with a Dr. Abbott.”

  Greene seemed suddenly wary. “What of it? That was years ago.”

  “Would you mind telling me why you dissolved the partnership?”

  “I don’t see—” Greene gave an impatient glance at his watch, then sighed. “Well, if you must know, there had been issues . . . I’d long worried that George was a bit too free with his prescriptions. On top of that, Nell and I disliked the way he treated his wife. Frankly, he was a bully. Then, when Laura died—” His gaze grew distant with the recollection. “It was a terrible time. She—” Greene cleared h
is throat before going on. “She cut her wrists in the shower. And if that wasn’t bad enough, they found medications in her system, things George had prescribed. Rumors were flying. It was all just too . . . awkward. I felt I couldn’t continue to associate with him.”

  “Is George Abbott still practicing?” Kincaid asked.

  “No. He retired a few years ago. Rather reduced circumstances, I believe.”

  “Did you know that George Abbott’s daughter lived in the same village as your ex-wife?”

  Booth gave Kincaid a sharp glance as Greene’s eyes widened. “No,” said Greene. “I had no idea.”

  Kincaid shrugged. “Well, small world, I’m sure.” He knew he was going to have to answer to Booth for throwing the Abbott thing out without filling him in first, and he wanted time to think about it. “My condolences, Dr. Gre—”

  “Did you say you were a superintendent?” Greene broke in, rising from his chair, the bristles back in full force. “What is a superintendent doing asking questions about my wife, and my practice? You’d better tell me what’s going on here.”

  “I’m not with the local force, Dr. Greene. My interest is personal. I was in the other car.”

  Melody saw that both garage spaces were empty, but her little Clio still sat pulled to one side, so Gemma hadn’t taken it. When she went inside, she found the house silent, the kitchen post-breakfast tidy. It still smelled faintly of coffee and bacon.

  Both Gemma’s and her mother’s handbags were missing from the hall bench, and her father’s Barbour was gone from its hook. Melody stood in the hall, listening. From the sitting room came the faint click of a keyboard.

  Well, there was nothing for it. She walked quietly across the hall and stopped at the sitting room door. He was sitting on the sofa, turned away from her. Light from the end-table lamp glinted on his fair hair.